The Steps That Lead To You
by DreamofInception
Summary: A series of Bellamy and Clarke one shots. Request any ideas in the comments section.
1. 1

_So while I am in the midst of a slight hiatus with my detective Bellamy and Clarke story, I decided to create a Bellarke one shot series to exercise my writing and creativity. And also, of course, for the entertainment of you lovely people. This one shot follows the events of 2x09, and predictions of what will be happening with their characters in season 2B._

_If you have any requests for a one shot, please, don't be afraid to comment the suggestion and I'll be happy to do it!_

_Happy bellarking!_

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><p><strong>Hours to Days<strong>

He has to get back to Clarke.

He has to get back to the smell of fire that waves off her skin, to the flames of determination that increases in her eyes, to the rough lips that he's longed to taste and feel.

He has to get back to her.

Bellamy grunts as he struggles against the wired walls around him. When he heard Clarke speak of the horrors of Mount Weather, he could almost envision her fear. He could almost sense the apprehension she felt when she fought her way out. He never imagined that he would feel it himself. Feel the emotions of hopelessness, of being trapped in the cages that she described to him.

He has to get back to her.

"Bellamy," Monty whispers from the cage across from him. He's weak and pale from surgeries, and Bellamy tries not to notice the declining life in his eyes. "There's no use. I've already tried everything."

Bellamy shakes his head. Doesn't he understand? _He has to get back to her._

"I'm getting us out of here, Monty," Bellamy urges. Though he doesn't know if his voice matches the reassurance in his heart. "We have an army. We have an army and we're going to get out of here. We're going to go home."

Monty scoffs. "Home. Earth isn't home. It's Hell."

No. No, no, no. He's wrong. Earth is their home now. Bellamy has a responsibility to return to, people to protect. He has people to love. That's what home is. No matter the circumstance.

He ignores the continuation of Monty's despair as he claws his nails against the cage. There has to be a way out of here. He can't give up, he won't. He didn't give up when Lincoln released the reaper that was still inside him, his teeth scratching along Bellamy's skin.

He didn't give up when he used a rock to knock Lincoln unconscious, when he tied him to a tree, knowing they're too far from camp and too close to Mount Weather to do anything better than leave him until he gets back.

He didn't give up when he was taken in to Mount Weather, when he was accused and tortured for being affiliated with the Ark and Grounders. For being brought in to help break the system down.

He didn't give up when Clarke's voice was nagging in his head, telling him, _yelling_ at him, saying that his life is worth the risk. That is death is worth their attempts.

She didn't mean it. He knows that. She knows that. He just wants to see her again to prove it to her. To prove that love and hope isn't lethal. That it can still exist.

Monty's wrong. Home isn't a place. It's a person.

It's her.

It's Clarke. His princess.

He has to get back to her.

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><p><em>The end! Really short I know, but I just wanted to write something based on the feels from last weeks episode! What did you guys think of that episode, crazy right?<em>

_Yet again, thanks for the awesome feedback as always, and don't forget to suggest a one shot if you want to! Love you guys, xoxo_


	2. 2

_I am so sorry for the delay! My laptop has been in repairs after an incident! Just a reminder that this oneshot series will not always be canon, or in chronological order. Enjoy! :) _

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><p><strong>Bellamy and Clarke<strong>

He realizes that the love he has for her is the dangerous kind.

The kind that allows him to be violent when her life is dangling in front of him, the kind that forces him to be selfish when she's captured by Grounders with other survivors, the kind that extends his brutality if anyone touches her.

And, irresponsibly yet completely understandable, the kind that motivates him to keep her safe amongst anyone else.

Based on the casualties he _could_ have saved, Bellamy identifies this as the reason why the feelings he has for Clarke Griffin is utterly and inefficiently dangerous.

God damn it.

"_Jacob_, Bellamy. You should have rescued Jacob, he's the one with the best aim. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Bellamy sighs. It's been several hours since he raided the Grounder prison in the east woods, his hands occupied with spears and his mind racing with desperation. There were four delinquents he brought with him after hearing of the princess being captured, and, undoubtedly, one of them being Jacob. And, undoubtedly, his priority was to save Clarke. Not Jacob.

Sorry Jacob.

"You weren't even paying attention to him," Clarke hisses, the wet cloth beginning to press a little harder against the side of his neck. His eyes don't stray from her fierce glare as he watches her from his position on the mattress. She's standing between his legs, her free hand on his shoulder, and he tries not to be obvious about his gazing.

But her eyes. Damn her eyes make it nearly impossible.

"Are you even fucking listening?"

Bellamy tilts his head further upwards to study her. Her skin is still plastered with dried blood and her hair is still frizzing from the nap she just woke from. The nap where she thrashed in his bed, screaming of murder, and he had to hush her back to a quiet slumber. Only for her to rewake and release her inner rage on him.

As long as she's breathing, he really doesn't fucking care.

"There wasn't anything I could have done," he tells her. It doesn't smooth the creasing in her forehead. "Jacob knew of the possibilities going in. He choice to come. To save _you_. He made his choice the minute he left camp with me."

Clarke scoffs. "You shouldn't have came. It's not worth the risk."

Okay, now he's getting pissed.

He grabs both of her hands that rest on his neck, pulling them back and taking them in his own grasp. He drops the bloodied cloth she's been healing him with on the floor, weaving his fingers through his. Her skin is cold and wet with the red reminder of loss.

Clarke breathes deeply, her eyes afire. He squeezes her hands and pulls her closer towards him. "You can't say that, Clarke," he murmurs. "You need to understand that it is worth the risk. It always fucking will be. Always has been."

And that's why its dangerous. And if his desperate need to protect her at all costs is what condemns him to hell, then he'll willingly go. As long as she's alive, he'll go anywhere, do anything, for her.

Clarke seems to understand that, and she rips her hands from his grasp and uses them to shove against his chest. He shifts on the mattress so he doesn't fall backwards, rising from the bed and standing in front of her. "Shut up, Bellamy," she grumbles, "just shut up, shut up, shut up."

His eyes bore into hers. "No."

He can hear her breathing falter, can sense the frustration radiate off her skin as she springs forward to shove him again. Her voice is weak and low, and he can notice the tears shedding her eyes. "You _idiot_. Don't you get it? Jacob died, he - " she stops short, pausing to wipe her fingers hastily at the wetness under eyes, "_You _could have died. That could have been _you_."

Her gaze is broken and her hands are clenched into fists. It reminds him of a familiar feeling, and he understands, he understands that she would do for him what he would do for her. And they're both too stubborn to allow each other to do it.

Bellamy shakes his head, but she speaks before he gets the chance to. "You can't just keep looking for me every time I'm in danger. I'm always in danger. Both of us are always in danger. But God, Bellamy, if something were to happen to you - I would . . . I would never forgive you. Or me. So that can't happen."

He can hear the meaning behind her words, _I can't loose you_, and _Don't die on me_. They all sound too familiar, too understandable. Her tone is shaking and Bellamy stands where he is, completely silent and unwavering.

Clarke swallows thickly. She isn't done. "So don't try to make me feel okay with you risking your life for me, because if it were the other way around, you wouldn't want me to go and you know it - "

The next moment is a blur of hands tangling in hair and continuous whispers of need. His mouth is desperate on hers, their bodies exploding with heat as she kisses him back with the same passion she uses with every kiss they share. He remembers the line of her lips by now, always soft when they're lazy, always vicious when they need each other. Her lips bring him home.

Her curves are familiar as he traces his fingers down her body, pausing to cups his hands around her thighs and pulling her up. She wraps her legs around her waist and bites down softly on his tongue, rolling her core against his.

Bloody hell. This girl really will be the death of him.

Bellamy carries her to the bed, laying her below him, growing with want. He hovers above her as they strip each other of their clothes, as they struggle to touch every exposed spot of skin. Her hands are smooth as they grab his arms, nails digging along his skin as he pushes into her.

And with his head buried in her neck, and her once broken voice now screaming his name, he accepts the fact that loving her could really cause the end of the world. It could bring upon fire and ice, and death and destruction. Loving her could cause wars and battles, with both sides losing.

It could cause both their existence, but fuck the world for trying.

Because she's alive, and kissing his neck, and he's never felt anything close to this with anybody else. This feeling of need. And hell, it is dangerous, he knows that. But so does she. Love is absolutely dangerous.

And they're both ridiculously and stupidly guilty of it.

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><p><em>Haha! Little different I know but I hope you guys enjoyed it!:) Again, don't be shy if you want to request any prompts, I'll be happy to do it! Happy Bellarking my loves!<em>

_Xoxo_


	3. 3

_Hey guys! Enjoy the new oneshot:) 3_

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><p><strong>Bellamy and Clarke<strong>

Bellamy Blake just had to get friggin' shot.

And not one of those minor injuries Clarke has always been able to recover on the field, or one of those opening of flesh she knows how to cover. This was a deep, life-threatening, possibly no-more-Bellamy-Blake wound. The one that squeezed Clarke's heart and made her breath falter.

_Fuck_.

"We have to get you out of here," she whispers, her hands steady on the entrance of the bullet hole, just above his left hip. The chaos of war surrounds them as he hisses in pain, his hands gripping her elbows. "Octavia's going to find a distraction. And we'll get you out. Don't worry, we'll get you out."

She thinks she's trying to reassure herself more than him.

The sound of screaming and gunshots continues to escalate, each pop a physical ache to her heart. She shuffles closer into the corner they're shielding behind, brushing her body with Bellamy's. She closes her eyes briefly. They'll win, they'll win and they'll save Bellamy. They'll save everyone. She _has _to.

"Clarke," Bellamy breathes. His skin is pale and cool, and the baseball cap he's been hiding behind is resting on the floor beside them, revealing those familiar brown curls of hair. She reaches out and touches them. So soft, yet painted with blood. "Get out of here. Now."

"No."

Another round involving shouts of pain echoes through the corridor, and his fingers clutch at her arm. "Clarke. Get the fuck out. I mean it. Get Octavia and _leave_." His tone is panicked now. Vulnerable. As if he knows what the outcome of this night is, as if he knows he's going to -

No. No, he's going to survive.

This can't be how it ends, there's no point of surviving if he's not there with her.

"Shut up," she hisses. Blood pours from the ripped part of his shirt she wrapped around his wound, and it makes her sick to think that Bellamy Blake, the man made of iron, bleeds red like everyone else. "Octavia should be back anytime now. So _shut up_."

"Clarke - "

She shakes her head. Her hand comes up to press her fingers against his cheek, blood staining his skin. His eyes soften at the contact, and she doesn't know whether it's because her embrace is comforting or because he's giving in to the feeling of death. Either way, it agonizes her.

"Listen to me," she murmurs. Her hand grips his face a little tighter to keep him awake but his eyes continue to droop. "You are not dyeing here. You hear me? You are not dyeing in this stupid fucking mountain. Octavia's coming back, and we're getting you out. So don't fucking _die _yet."

Her heart is pounding, and his breath is slowing, and _God _she can't lose him, she _can't _lose him now -

So she kisses him.

Clarke leans forward, eyes falling closed, and kisses him. A soft, sweet kiss that sparks a sensation inside her, an overwhelming amount of need that stabilizes her breathing. Her fingers press softer into his skin, and she sighs in relief when she feels him kissing her back. His mouth parting her lips and his breath on her skin. _Whoa_.

She pulls back, hearing the nearing footsteps and shouts of Octavia returning to them. Her eyes slowly lift to meet his. His gaze is burning and alive. "About damn time," he whispers. His words make her nod, make her smile through the tears, and she leans forward to press her lips quickly against his forehead.

If she loses him, it was never worth the risk.

Octavia kneels beside them, tells them the army is overpowering the Mountain Men and Lincoln found an opening for them to escape back to Camp Jaha. She tells them it's a long and dangerous walk, but Clarke doesn't hear that, all she hears is the fact that they have a chance. Bellamy has a chance.

So they leave, half dragging and half carrying him as they stumble across the ground. Clarke tries to drown the sound of continuous screaming and pain as she leaves her people behind, but then she hears chants, and shouts of victory, and she knows they've won.

Of course they did. Bellamy fucking saved them all.

And now they have to save Bellamy.

He's unconscious by the time they reach Camp Jaha, and her mother hurries him into the med bay. The minutes of his surgery turn into hours, and the hours of his coma turn into days, until finally, one day, he wakes up.

And Clarke is there. Holding his hand and peppering her lips against his face. She's there when he cries for the people they lost (the loss of Monty and Harper still burns), and she's there when he smiles when he reunite with the people they saved.

And God. She can't help but feel that he saved her. So many damn times.

So months later, when they're huddled in his tent in the night, his arms wrapped around her waist, she finally says the words she's been terrified of speaking of since Finn. The words she's been taught to hate and never feel.

"I love you."

His grin is soft and welcoming, because he's always known. "About time," he whispers.

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><p><em>Haha! Hopefully this is what happens during the season finale?! Or at least SOME kind of Bellarke moment, I mean come on Jason! We need Bellarke!<em>

_Again, requests are always welcome. Happy bellarking, xoxoxoxo. _


	4. Snippet

_Hey guys! So this is an idea for a Bellamy and Clarke story that involves Bellamy being apart of a rebellion in AU and Clarke afterwards joining. This is just a short introduction to the story, and if I get enough positive feedback, I will continue on the story! Let me know and I hope you enjoy it! :) xoxo_

**_UPDATE:_**_ hey guys! Loved the feedback, just to let you know I'm almost done the first part of this extended one shot, although fan fiction is down and won't let me save my work. Will have it up as soon as I can!_

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><p><strong>Nowhere Found<strong>

They practised for hours.

Hours upon hours of boxing stances, of upper cuts and right crosses, of jabs and hooks. Her father kept insisting she'd become stronger if she continued to push herself, but she felt weak and tired. She felt like having her mother's carrot soup and watching the sunset like they used to. But her father was persistent.

It was warmer in the living room then she expected, even with the windows open, and her shirt was beginning to stain with the inner release of her body, her arms trembling as she struggled to maintain them in a defensive position. Clarke clenched her hands, waiting, always waiting, for what her father was about to instruct her to do.

"Make sure you don't tuck your thumb in your fingers," her father told her. He reached forward, his hands overlapping hers as he guided her fists in the correct position. "There. Like that. Now swing."

She did.

Her father shook her head. "Again."

Clarke sighed. She dropped her hands, ignoring the way her father's lips curved, a pure indication that he was about to tell her to _be strong_, to _never give up_. She spoke before he got the chance to lecture her. "Why do I need to learn this anyway, Dad?"

Her father straightened his posture. He's been trying to avoid this conversation since he's been teaching her defence moves for the past few months. She didn't understand. There are Guards here, officers, people who can protect them from the horrors of what the war created that live outside the gates.

They're safe inside these walls, inside The Ark, that's what he always told her. That's what she was raised to believe.

"Come here." Her father crouched down, his hands extending towards her. Clarke took them and allowed him to pull her forward. He rested his grip on her shoulders. "When you get older, you are going to learn that some things aren't how they should be, that things should be better."

Clarke worried her eyebrows. "Why?"

Her father squeezed her shoulders. "Don't you worry yourself on that just yet, okay?" When she nodded, he managed a small smile. The feature looked strained on his face. "Remember this for me. Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in."

His eyes are big and red, and Clarke has never seen her father without his familiar look of mischievousness. She rested her hands on his and intertwined their fingers. Her voice was unwavering.

"I won't."

Her father grinned. "That's my girl," he murmured. He leaned forward to press his lips softly against her cheek before standing up, resuming to their previous positions. He nodded at her hands, clenching in fists. "Now twenty more minutes, your mom will have dinner ready soon."

Clarke rose her chin, curved her muscles, and swung and swung until her body ached and her mouth grew dry. She was panting by the end of the few final minutes, but her father was happy, and it made her smile, made it worth it.

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><p><strong>- <em>SEVEN YEARS LATER -<em>**

Sometimes she wonders if what's outside the gates is better than what's inside.

It's something that all citizens of the Ark have wondered, have _dreamed_, have painted and drew and sold for additional rations. There are stories, campfire discussions that tell the tales of the bandits who scavenge the woods and murder those who are not protected by the security of a refugee base.

But neither of them has ever stepped a foot outside of the camp.

Clarke presses her face against the glass of the window, her eyes peering at the various colours that extend past the walls. The trees are beginning to brighten in the approaching autumn, a season where the Ark is busy with trades and rations in preparation for winter. A winter that comes every year, yet manages to kill the same amount of people.

It's a system, trading food for supplies, trading supplies for food. That's how the citizens of the Ark live. That's how the Exodus War left them, with the remaining survivors of the losing side being held in refugee bases located across the country. This is all they know. All Clarke remembers. Just living in a box and performing in monthly trades in order to receive enough food to see the next one.

Her father used to tell her that the way they lived was punishment for being on the wrong side of the war. He said, and evidently so, that the base guards only protected the more privileged side of camp and harmed the less privileged side.

She's heard of the incidents of course, of the one incident where Roma Rae was raped and then executed for falsely accusing a Guard. Only there were seven witnesses supporting her case, claiming she was telling the truth.

Chancellor Jaha disagreed.

"Clarke?"

Clarke blinks, her eyes tearing from the landscape in front of her to look at her mother, standing beside the kitchen table. Abby places her clasped hands in front of her, wringing her fingers. "The Trade is starting soon, darling," she informs her.

Clarke nods. "Do you have everything?"

Abby manages a sad smile, her eyes shifting to the surface of the table beside her. Medicine and health supplies they are able to create for extra rations lies in a pile on the wood. It looks smaller than last time, and Clarke can notice the bags under her eyes, indicating the hours she spent making them. Clarke knows, she has them, too.

"It's not much. Should be enough to receive an amount of rations to last us until next month," Abby mumbles, her tone yearning.

Clarke bites on her bottom lip. They haven't been able to make as much since her father died, each month being especially cruel with Abby's increasing shifts at the medical bay and Clarke's increasing amount of work at school. They struggle, but they get by. They have to.

Clarke takes the few steps towards her mother in two strides. She places her hand on her shoulder, her fingers wrapping gratefully around the material of her shirt. "It'll be enough, Mom," she reassures.

Abby smiles. It'll be enough.

There's a breaking of silence as The Trade horn sounds, informing the Ark citizens to begin meeting in the camp square and stand at their scheduled booths. They have the same booth every year, in the area with the least protection and the most theft. Not that the Guard does much protecting anyways.

Abby exhales deeply. "Ready?"

Clarke reaches forward, gathering the pile of medicine in a basket and covering it with a cloth. Her eyes shift to meet her mother's, brown and yielding. She takes her hand in hers, squeezing her palm.

"Ready."

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><p>Clarke's feet begin to ache by the late afternoon.<p>

The square is crowded as expected for the month of October, members of the camp surrounding the booths that offer their favourite or needed items, items that include supplies for baking, or games for the backyard, or health care packages. There's a murmur of hurried voices as people attempt to bargain for special deals, as they beg to pay with one ration pack instead of two.

It's no use. The seller needs as much to survive as the buyer does.

Guards line the perimeter of the square, eyes shifting between passing citizens, hands wrapping instinctively around their weapons. Their bodies are pressed together as if to create a cage around them. No way in, no way out. Clarke smirks. A cage, that's what the Ark is.

Clarke glances at the remaining pile of medicine that rests on the booth, bottles and caps with names that their customers can barely pronounce. They've been able to sell a steady amount for six packs of rations, enough to last them almost two weeks. With the half mark of the Trade approaching, it's also enough to worry her into thinking they'll have to skip meals. Again.

Fortunately for them, the prince of the camp, Wells Jaha, spends every Trade at their booth, giving double the rations that they expect him to. This Trade, he gave them triple, given him and Clarke's previous relationship and him wanting to resume it.

It's understandable that she doesn't since his father got her father killed. It's a typical issue for him and his prior girlfriends.

"Clarke."

Her mother's elbow connects with Clarke's waist sharply. Clarke sighs, turning her body to her mother questioningly. Abby meets her gaze momentarily before she can speak, jerking her head towards the man who walks toward them, chin high and three guards accompanying.

The crowd parts a path for them, most of them glaring in surprise. The higher end of the population rarely bother to waste their time buying trades from this part of camp. More commonly, the more privileged citizens (those who aren't raped and starving and suffering) are those who's ancestor's were on the winning side of the Exodus War. The heroes.

Like her father said, life in the Ark is a punishment.

"Ms. Griffin," Chancellor Jaha greets as he approaches them, ordering the guards to the side with a swift of his hand. He turns back to them and nods in acknowledgement, eyes settling on Clarke. "Clarke, how is school?"

She swallows. _Fuck you_. "It's fine, sir," she tells him. She even manages a damn smile.

Jaha hums in satisfaction with her response. It makes her want to shove a ration down his throat. "That's good to hear. Do you mind if I speak to your mother for a few minutes?"

Clarke purses her lip, not liking the feeling of anxiety in her stomach. She blinks, glancing sideways at her mother, who nods in encouragement. Abby's frame is rigid as she taps a reassuring hand on her daughter's shoulder, her eyes never leaving Jaha.

"Of course, sir," Clarke agrees. He'd also have her permission to hang himself in the mean time.

Jaha smiles, graciously almost, at her before turning his attention to her mother. Abby acts instantly, stepping away from the booth, the place where she stood beside Clarke already cold and desperate to be returned to.

She grins tightly at her behind her shoulder. "Keep the booth under control."

Clarke nods. She exhales deeply, watching as her mother follows in step with Jaha, her face downcast in an attempt to shield her expression from her. The pair of them walk with their back towards her, the guards shortly behind. The crowd parts again at their exit.

She stares angrily at the outline of their frame. Jaha has never expressed any interest in how Clarke and her mother have lived their life, other than the occasional execution of a family member. She feels her body tense at the thought. If he even fucking _touches _-

"Miss. Griffin?"

Clarke flinches at the sound of her name. Her vision tears from the disappearing figures, tilting her face to the source of the deep voice that called her. Her gaze rests on a man in front of her, eyebrows quirked and hands shoved in his front pockets. The curls of his hair fall against his forehead, just above his dark eyes.

She blinks. "Sorry."

He offers a small grin, and she _knows _him, of course she knows him. Bellamy Blake. He's been coming to the booth every Trade for the past few months, trading the limited rations he has for medicine she knows he barely recognizes. He's almost ashamed when he asks for it, as if he's afraid of revealing the reason why he needs the medication.

Even though, by now, everyone in the East end knows.

It's hard not to hear the screams eliciting from Aurora Blake in the residence on the corner of Clarke's street. Clarke has even tended to her before after his younger sister, who's in her grade, Octavia, begged her for weeks to help their dying mother. Doctors and nurses are accustomed at a high cost, even those who work in the East end.

It's against the law, could very much get her killed, but she couldn't do nothing. Her father wouldn't do nothing.

_Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in._

Bellamy glances behind his shoulder, eyebrows knitting together when he turns back to her. "Not usual seeing the chancellor in this part of town," he voices. His tone is deeper than she remembers, stronger. He crosses his arms over his chest. His arms are stronger, too.

Clarke pursues her lips, her eyes hardening. "I'm sure he doesn't like it either."

He hums in agreement, and there's a look in his eyes that suggests he holds the same disgust for Jaha such as hers. His gaze falls from hers, glare narrowing as he analyzes the pile of medicine in front of him. She watches as he mouths the name of the pills on his lips. Of course he knows the words. He's seen enough death and sickness by now.

"How is she?"

His eyes lift to hers, looking away momentarily, and she follows his line of vision to observe Octavia standing at a booth a couple yards away. Clarke sighs, they both have people to worry about protecting.

His voice is low when he talks. "Octavia doesn't seem to realize it's almost time," he tells her. He turns back to her, gaze returning. "I just need something to help minimize the pain."

Clarke nods in understanding. She reaches towards the pile of medicine and grabs a bottle of herbs her mother cooks for the patients who are slowly giving in to their sickness. She extends it towards him, and he takes it from her grasp, his skin brushing hers. He turns the bottle in his hand, eyes searching.

"She shouldn't be able to feel anything by the time . . . "

She doesn't finish her sentence, and he doesn't ask her to. He places the bottle on the table in satisfaction and reaches into the pocket of his pants. After a moment of silent searching, he pulls one ration pack from his jeans and places it in her palm. "It's not much," he tells her, tone cursing the circumstances, "but I hope it's enough."

The figures of Jaha and her mother reappear in her line of vision behind Bellamy's shoulder as they begin to return to the booth. Clarke looks at Bellamy, the bags under his eyes, the dirt and exhaustion on his face. She grins sympathetically, grins and thinks of her father as she leans forward to grab another bottle of herbs from the booth and tosses it towards him.

Bellamy catches it in his hands.

"It's enough."

He shakes his head. "Miss. Griffin - "

Clarke looks at him, and this is what humanity feels like. This is how it feels to be human. She jerks her chin towards the approaching images of Abby and Jaha who are gaining closer to where they're standing. "You better hurry, my mom isn't as a lenient," she warns him. There's a pause, and they're both silent and staring. "And it's Clarke," she decides to add.

There's a glint of gratitude in Bellamy's eyes that he seems incapable to speak on. He swallows thickly, frozen, not moving until he glances at his sister one more time, allows her appearance encourage him.

He looks at her then, his eyes dark and bold in contrast to her blue ones. Brooding and calm. His gaze doesn't leave hers as he takes the second bottle, doesn't leave hers as he begins to back away from the booth. "Clarke," he mumbles, in parting, in appreciation.

She nods at him, gestures for him to go, closes her eyes softly when he's out of sight.

_Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in._

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><p><em>Okay so this is a short snippet of an idea I have for a Bellamy and Clarke story! If you want me to continue, please let me know because I am genuinely not sure if I will but I will if you guys want me to :)<em>

_Let me know in the review section! Have a great day guys! XOXOXO 3_

_Happy Bellarking, _


	5. Part 2 Preview

_Hey guys! I decided to write the next few chapters of my story "Nowhere Found". Here''s a little preview of the next one! Just thought I'd share since I don't know when I will be able to post the full chapter with exams and all! Should be within a week for sure though :) Have a great day and good luck with the 100 finale tomorrow haha!_

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><p><strong>Nowhere Found Part 2<strong>

i.

Abby Griffin has been dead for five months.

Five months since the execution that left Clarke's mother hanging in a state of lifelessness. Five months of struggling, struggling with being polite with the privileged and the Guards, with creating enough medicine to last her until the next Trade.

Five months since she lost her mother. Five months since she became an orphan.

The cabin feels empty, lonelier. Cold and hopeless without the cheering smile of Abby Griffin, without the comfort and wise words she would tell Clarke in order to get through a day in the Ark.

The Ark. Still despicable. Still corruptive.

But the unprivileged society is beginning to fight back.

_"When you get older, you are going to learn that some things aren't how they should be, that things should be better."_

It's not better. It's different. And the Ark is different. There's been riots, small undiscovered crowds of the unprivileged that storm the streets, that tear down posters of Chancellor Jaha and paint words of rebellion on nearby stores.

Expectantly, with the increasing number of resilience against the Ark, there's also an increasing number of executions.

Fathers, mothers, siblings, and friends. Young and old. Healthy and ill. All of them, it doesn't matter, there's no limit on the amount of lives that the Ark has taken. No amount of hopelessness and grief that Chancellor Jaha has clouded the camp with.

But something is coming. Though Clarke doesn't know whether that something is good or bad.

She supposes it doesn't really matter. Nothing was ever good.

Clarke sighs. She reaches forward to scans her fingers across the piece of paper that lays in front of her. Her mother's note. The words have since been burned into her memory, the last words her mother has ever told her. Her final, last piece of advice.

And Clarke still can't figure it out.

_"Trust the Grounders, follow them home, Clarke."_

Grounders. She has no recollection of ever speaking of the term before. No memory of ever hearing of it. But she knows her mother, what she wanted, what her father would have wanted.

They want her to fight. Clarke just doesn't know if she can anymore.

She doesn't know _how _she can.

The silence of the cabin breaks as the horn bristles through the air, reminding the Ark citizens of the Trade that will shortly begin. Clarke is still at the same booth, with the same people, with the same thieves and Guards surrounding the area. That's how it is.

It's a cool day in February, and Clarke glances over at the kitchen table. The pile of medicine that rests on the surface of the wood seems to get smaller and smaller each month. And so do her meals.

School has since ended, and that allowed Clarke the advantage to start her shifts at the medical bay. She's able to get the supplies she requires to make the medicine for the Trade, able to receive a couple additional packs of rations. It's still not much. But it's enough.

For now, living in the Ark, following the law, that's enough.

Enough for her to keep going. To keep living.

But she doesn't know how much longer she can last. Doesn't really care.

* * *

><p>ii.<p>

The camp square is swarming yet again with customers. There's the familiar sound of begging, of crying and screaming that Clarke has always been uncomfortable with but has grown to accept. The unprivileged are desperate human beings.

Desperate people make desperate attempts. And those desperate attempts usually get them killed.

Clarke breathes deeply, looks down at her table. She's only managed to sell seven bottles of medicine in the last couple of hours. That's equivalent to nine packs of rations, to three weeks of living.

Or survival. Or whatever.

That's what Clarke has come accustomed to, with the death of her mother. That's what she's come to learn. She'll never be able to live, to be happy, to make other people happy. There's no room for that in the Ark. In the Ark, hope makes you weak. And weakness gets you executed.

It also sure feels a hell of a lot like giving up. She never thought she'd come to this point.

Clarke licks her lips. She exhales, breathes, rubbing her fingers against her palms to remove herself from her state of mind. Her eyes flicker, pressuring against the building tears in her eyes, and she catches herself in a glare with the person at the booth across from her.

Bellamy Blake.

God damn Bellamy Blake.

His eyes are strong, persistent, the familiar intensity she's observed since the moment of the attack in the alleyway. His hair is curly and growing long since the last Trade, and that's the only time she see's him, when he's standing by Octavia, doing what he needs to do to survive.

Clarke looks away. She hasn't contacted him since the days following her mother's death. And he tried, so did Octavia, they tried to help her, to give her extra rations and offer their support. They tried to make the pain go away.

But she refused. Because every time she looks at him, she see's the man in the alleyway. And every time she thinks of the alleyway, she thinks of how it got her mother killed.

And it starts over again. The pain that never ends.

She's seen him once since the tragedy that occurred five months ago, when he came into the medical bay. His arm was bleeding, deep, and she had to perform stitches on him that required about an hour of practical procedure.

An hour of silence. Silence and brooding. There were some things he said, although, some things she learned. She learned he is still working at the factory, that his sister has begun a job at the school, teaching Greek history.

She learned that his mother died.

But then again, she didn't exactly learn that. She heard of it, when it happened a couple weeks after her mother, heard the wailing that Octavia Blake echoed throughout the East end from their cabin. She heard, and she didn't do anything. Didn't say anything then.

She offered her condolences to him when he informed her, and he just shrugged, nodded even. His lips were bruised and he looked tired. He looked too good of a person for this world.

"Hey, Clarke."

Clarke turns to the sound of the voice, eyes widening at the person in front of her. "Graham," she says in acknowledgement.

He smirks his yellow grin. His hair is shaggy and red, dirty, and Clarke looks around, eyeing the Guards that pass by. They know of Graham's motives, of the amount of suspensions he received from the Trade. He's stolen, even from the most poor of the families, but it didn't matter.

He was a privileged. And that meant it was okay.

Graham fingers one of the medicine bottles on the table. It makes Clarke's nerves tense. "I just wanted to come by, see how you were doing with your mother and all."

"I'm fine."

"That's good," he slithers. He eyes the table, his gaze shifting between the medicine and Clarke. "That's good."

Clarke nods. Her mother was usually the person who could deal with the conflicts that arose during the Trade. And he knows that. He knows and that's why he was smart to never try and steal from them before. But now it's not them. Now it's just her. It's just Clarke.

Graham turns away from the booth before she even realizes the two medicine bottles missing from the table.

_Fuck._

"Hey," she sneers. She steps away from the booth, her steps trailing behind him as he walks further into the centre of the camp square. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

He glances over his shoulder at her. "Piss off, Griffin."

Clarke reaches forward. She grasps his elbow with her fingers and turns him towards her, her hands tight on his skin. He rolls his eyes, smiles at the Guards that observe them, and it hasn't occurred to her until then that straying people have begun to notice their encounter.

Clarke doesn't care. She doesn't fucking care.

"I can't afford this Graham and you know it." She's pleading now. Desperate people make desperate attempts. "Give it back."

Graham sighs. He gently peels her fingers from his elbow, and places her hand back to her side. He looks at her, and those eyes of trouble are hidden behind his bangs, behind his status. He smiles, softly, sarcastically.

"Why don't you go cry to your fucking mommy?"

There's many options of how she can handle this situation. There's a few stray members of the Ark that has surrounded them now, engaged in the situation and clash of the statuses. She can walk away, easily forget about the medicine bottles and return to her booth without consequences. But she doesn't do that.

Clarke punches him.

Her fists clench, tightly wounded as they strike against the side of his face, against his right cheek. He gasps, his fingers pressing against the redness surfacing his skin as the medicine bottles drop to the ground from their spot in his coat pocket.

Clarke's eyes harden, and she raises her fist again.

"Clarke."

She feels hands on her shoulders, pushing her back, and she knows who it is before her eyes even reach his face.

Bellamy stands between her and Graham, his expression hard. He tightens his hold around the material of her jacket, and he shakes his head, eyes warning in his usual intensity.

"Stop," he demands.

Clarke removes his hands from her shoulders and narrows her eyes. "Get the hell out of my way, Bellamy," she growls.

"No."

His answer sends a shiver of rage down her spine, and she stares at him, the silhouette of the crowd and Graham in the background. His hard expression reflects hers, and she knows he's not giving up. He's not giving up on her.

Her shoulders slump as she sighs. She wants to cry, wants to scream out at the people watching them, yell at them to continue with their day, to not gawk. She's the exhibit of a tragic individual in the Ark, the poor girl who almost got raped, who lost her parents, who punched Graham.

The poor girl who lost her mind.

"Miss. Griffin."

The icy voice of Chancellor Jaha splits through the air. Her fists curl tighter, and she swallows thickly, throat burning in the hatred that surrounds her. His tone is menacing, and she doesn't want to look at him.

But then she watches as Bellamy's eyes shift from hers to glare at a figure behind her shoulder, and she follows his direction of vision, turning to face Jaha and the crowd that parts with him.

Jaha steps forward. His stance of pride is familiar and despicable as a rally of Guards stand nearby in a protective stance around him. "Miss. Griffin," he repeats, this time her name sounds more irritated on his tongue, "I, along with other witnesses, observed you getting in a physical fight with Mr. Graham."

Clarke nods. She won't deny it. "He stole two of my medicine bottles, sir." The title still burns her lips.

"I understand," Jaha answers. Bellamy's breath is hot against the back of her neck where he stands behind her. "Although I am afraid to announce that this act of violence will not be accepted. Starting now, you are suspended from the sequence of today until the next Trade. Please, if you could, pack up your booth and return to your cabin."

Clarke shakes her head in disbelief. "Chancellor - "

"Now."

Clarke blinks. The crowd that has been observing the scene has grown larger, and she see's the recognizable faces of the students she went to school with, the acknowledged expressions of her mother's past co-workers. All thinking the same thing. Always thinking the same thing.

The Griffin girl. The one who's lost her mind.

She hears the coughing of Graham as he stands from the ground, and she doesn't realize until then that her fist starts to cramp. She licks her lips, flexing her palm and turning towards the direction of her booth.

Bellamy is still looking down at her when she catches his gaze again, but this time the wall of armour is gone, and his eyes are softer, sympathetic. And she wonders if he's thinking the same thing, too.

The Griffin girl. The one who's lost her mind.

Clarke shakes her head at him, as if to answer her own question. She's not gone. She's not lost. She pushes past him and ignores the wavering stares as she walks through the crowd.

She bends down to pick up her two recovered medicine bottles, and then leaves the Trade, with a pile of rations much smaller than last time.

* * *

><p><em>Well! There's the small snippet! Hope you guys enjoyed it and are looking forward to the next one!<em>

_Happy Bellarking!_

_xoxoxoxo_


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